The Fire I Didn't Set.

This morning—like too many mornings before it—I found myself sitting in the thick silence of my own thoughts, struggling with forgiveness. I have tried. God knows I’ve tried. I’ve worked hard. I’ve loved hard. I’ve done my best to live right, to pray right, to walk the narrow path with as much grace as I could carry. And yet, it seems, the closer people get to me, the more something in them shifts. A jealousy creeps in—quiet at first, then louder, darker—until it becomes a force that feels almost murderous.

Is it a spirit that stirs this reaction in others? A demon? Or is it something deeper—something spiritual I was assigned to carry into this world? Some invisible hand that provokes others into facing their own shadows when they come near my light? I’ve asked myself this for years. Maybe I’m a mirror. Maybe I’m a storm. Or maybe I am just a daughter of God walking a path too few understand.

From as young as nine, I remember asking Him—“Place me in Your perfect will.” I didn’t know then what it would cost. I didn’t know that the perfect will of God often feels like being chosen for the frontlines of invisible wars. I didn’t know how much betrayal would come from those I tried hardest to love. Or how clearly I’d come to see the intention behind the pain. Not just the wounds—but the hands that dealt them, knowingly.

And yes, I’ve rebelled. I’ve broken things in my own hands, too. But even then, even when I walked away, I could feel the pull of heaven on my spine. I couldn’t run far enough or fast enough from the call stitched into my bones. And now I sit here—peacefully isolated—not lonely, but alone. Not bitter, but guarded. I am afraid to share my joy, because joy has made me a target before. I am afraid to trust, because trust has been used as a weapon against me.

Forgiveness used to come easy. When I thought the pain was accidental. When I imagined the slights were misunderstandings. But now—now I see too much. I see the planning behind the betrayals, the pleasure some took in my sorrow, the doors that were shut not by accident but by design. It’s hard to forgive what was calculated. It’s hard to bless those who intended the curse.

And so I ask: why should I?

If the law of the spirit says, “You reap what you sow,” then shouldn’t that be enough? If divine justice is real—and I believe it is—then why should I still carry the burden of working through the wreckage others caused? Why should I still cry over ashes that were never mine to burn?

Do I want apologies? Not really. What would they even fix? They wouldn’t give me back the time that was stolen. They wouldn’t reverse the years of sabotage or silence the echoes of trauma in my family line. No apology can raise the dead parts of me that had to be buried to survive.

And yet…

There’s a part of me—a holy part—that whispers something else. It’s the part of me the Holy Spirit keeps alive, even when I want to die to this softness. It’s the voice that rubs my back in the middle of the night and reminds me: “Love cures everything.” It doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t forget it. But it cures. It keeps me human. Keeps me holy. Keeps me whole.

Still, the scars itch. That’s the thing about wounds—we can forgive the blade, but the skin remembers the slicing. And when it itches, I want to scratch. I want to set fire to the house where every abuser and betrayer gathers. I want to watch it burn—not out of cruelty, but out of pain so deep it has no language. But even that fantasy offers no healing. It doesn’t return what I lost. It doesn’t buy back what they stole. It only feeds the part of me I’ve been trying to starve.

So here I am again. Sitting with God. Trying to release my heart into His hands. Not because it’s easy. Not because they deserve it. But because I do. I deserve peace. I deserve to breathe without bitterness sitting on my chest. I deserve to move forward without carrying corpses of people who never asked for resurrection.

Forgiveness isn’t weakness. It’s warfare. A holy, bloodstained, tear-soaked fight to reclaim my joy. And some days, the best I can do is whisper, “God, I don’t know how to forgive. But I’m willing. Teach me.”

I don’t want to be soulless. I don’t want to become what hurt me. I don’t want to harden into something cold just to stop bleeding. I want to be new. I want to be the kind of healed that no one can fake. The kind of free that no devil can counterfeit.

So if you see me quiet, don’t mistake it for defeat. I’m just healing in private. I’m just holding my heart in my hands, deciding what to let go of and what to keep. I’m building a life that’s drenched in truth, even if it costs me comfort. I’m still on the altar I climbed up on at 9 years old, still asking for the will of God—no matter how it burns.

And maybe, just maybe, every time I choose love over vengeance, something in the spirit shifts. Maybe I’m not cursed. Maybe I’m not haunted. Maybe I’m chosen to confront the spirit of jealousy, to draw it out and expose it, to force those around me into their own crossroads of redemption or judgment. Maybe my presence demands change. Maybe that’s the assignment.

It’s not fair. But it is holy.

So I keep walking. Forgiving. Breathing. Loving. Even when it feels like dying. Because I wasn’t made to set the world on fire with my rage—I was made to light it up with glory. And some fires don’t destroy. Some fires refine.

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